Closure
by xerxia31
Summary: Closure isn't always an ending...


From my The One She Left Behind Universe. It's not necessary to have read the original piece to enjoy this, but it would help.

This is not my typical smut and fluff fare, this is, instead, a look at modern AU Peeta as he confronts the mortality of a person he thought he'd left firmly in the past. Rated M for mature subject matter and language. TW: talk of child abuse, minor character death.

 **Closure**

 **rated M**

"Mom's dying."

Those weren't words Peeta Mellark was expecting to hear when his phone rang, his brother Rye's picture on the display. It would be a lie to say he'd never imagined hearing them though.

His mother left just before his thirteenth birthday, left behind her home and husband, left behind her sons and her entire life. Packed a few things into the trunk of her car and took off for the west coast without a single glance back. Peeta hadn't seen her since, not once in fourteen years. No visits, no phone calls, no letters, not a solitary word from the woman who had given him life.

As an adolescent, sad and confused by her abandonment, he'd fantasized about her falling mortally ill, asking for him on her deathbed. Begging for his forgiveness.

But he wasn't a child anymore.

"Rye, what? How?" he started, but his brother cut him off.

"She's got liver cancer, Peet. Brann says she's only got a couple of weeks. A month at most." Of course, Brann would know. Of the three Mellark boys, Brann, the eldest, was the only one still in contact with her. He was the only one she had ever cared about.

Last Peeta heard, she was living in California somewhere, near Brann but far from Panem, NY, the little white-washed all-American town where they had grown up. Far from Manhattan, where Peeta now lived with his fiancée. Completely out of his life, out of his thoughts. Until that moment.

Peeta blew out a forceful breath, rubbed his hand roughly over his face in an attempt to dispel some of the anger that just the mention of her caused to flood through his veins like venom. "I know," Rye grumbled in his ear. "I feel the same. You know I do." Peeta did know that. In many ways, Rye was even more angry than his younger brother. After all, their mother had never really made any secret of her disdain for Peeta, the third baby she'd only agreed to bear because she hoped he'd be a daughter. It was more of a shock for Rye when she left him behind too.

"What are we supposed to do, drop everything and go running to her because she asked? It's a little late for that I think." The tense silence that stretched down the phone line made Peeta's stomach clench. "Rye?" More silence. "She didn't ask for us, did she?"

Peeta almost had to look at his phone, to see if the call was still connected, but he could hear breathing, rough, uneven. Rye was struggling to keep himself together. It took another full minute before he answered.

"No, she didn't." Rye sighed, a world of pain in that airy little noise. "Brann… well he thought we might want to see her, just once. For closure."

"Just once," Peeta mumbled. Just once. After all of the onces she had missed in his life. Fifteen birthdays. Fourteen Christmases. High school graduation. College graduation. The awards he'd won. The life he'd built. She would even miss his upcoming wedding to the most incredible girl in the world.

"I think I'm going to go," Rye admitted dully, pulling Peeta out of his reverie.

"What? Why would you do that? After everything, why would you want to give her a chance to hurt you again?" Peeta was no fool; he knew they wouldn't show up at her side and have her cry and beg their forgiveness. His childhood fantasies were only folly. They'd be lucky to simply not get tossed out of her room.

"I don't know, Peet…" he trailed off. Peeta waited, but nothing else was forthcoming.

"I'm not interested," Peeta said, though he wasn't being entirely honest, and he knew it.

"Aren't you a little bit curious?" Rye asked quietly. "Don't you want, I don't know. Maybe to show her we've managed just fine without her?"

"No."

But it wasn't true. And for hours after hanging up, Peeta thought about it. Thought about her.

And hated himself for it.

o-o-o

Peeta was sitting in the little spare bedroom of their brownstone, the one that served as his painting studio with the floor to ceiling windows, when Katniss came home that evening. But he wasn't painting. Instead, he was staring into the nothingness.

He was grateful that she knew him, knew his moods better than he did, maybe, always seemed to intuit when he needed space. She kissed his cheek and told him she'd order in Thai for dinner. He nodded, and she left him to his brooding.

But she coaxed the story from him later, over satay chicken and rice noodles. "If you wanted to go, I'd come with you," she said gently.

"I don't want to see her," he insisted.

"I know. But if you did…" She didn't push any further.

o-o-o

Rye called again a few days later. "I booked my flight. Tavia and I are going out next Thursday."

"Why?" Peeta couldn't help asking.

"I have to know," was all he said.

o-o-o

It consumed Peeta. Did she think about him, ever? Did she regret abandoning him? Did she even know he was still alive?

The nightmares that had plagued his teens came back full force. Night after night she left him, abandoned him, his child-self trembling and weeping even as his adult-self was cradled in the arms of the woman he loved. "Peeta," Katniss sighed into his hair one morning as the first wisps of dawn curled over their windowsill. "You have to face this, one way or another. It's eating you alive."

He pulled back to look at her. The thin light emphasized the dark circles under her eyes. He knew he wasn't the only one affected by the news of his mother's potentially imminent demise. "I don't know if I can see her," he admitted.

"She can't hurt you anymore." Katniss stroked his hair as he absorbed her words. But they both knew they weren't exactly true. It wasn't bruises or broken bones now, not like when he was young. But her absence continued to hurt him every day, made him question his value as a person, made him doubt his worthiness of being loved. What kind of monster must he be if his own mother couldn't love him?

"I'm afraid," he confessed. She held him tighter.

o-o-o

Their flight landed in San Francisco ninety minutes before Rye and Octavia were due to arrive, and they passed the time with a drink in the sky lounge. Every moment, he fought with himself, fought the urge to simply head back into the terminal and board a flight home. Only Katniss's hand on his knee kept him grounded.

"Tell me about our wedding," Peeta murmured, desperate for distraction, and Katniss smiled.

"White flowers," she sighed. "White sand. And a white bikini."

Peeta chuckled, letting the mental image of his Katniss in a tiny bikini, miles of her smooth olive skin glowing under a tropical sunset, ease his heart. They were planning to be married in just three months, and Katniss had chosen a resort in Jamaica as the destination.

White sand, blue ocean, just the two of them in paradise. It was a compelling vision that Katniss, always detail-oriented, was working hard to make into reality.

It wasn't exactly how he'd pictured his wedding day, though. He was a traditionalist at heart; in every daydream over the years he'd always envisioned Katniss in a long white dress walking down the aisle of the tiny church in their hometown. He'd even proposed to her on bended knee, as old-fashioned as it gets.

But Katniss had no family, and he barely interacted with his father or brothers anymore. He hadn't even been to his hometown in years, there were too many bad memories there for both of them. As much as it was what he'd always wanted, the traditional white wedding, surrounded by all of their loved ones, simply didn't fit with the reality of their lives. So when she'd suggested eloping, he'd agreed without hesitation.

Peeta sighed as the burst of pleasure evaporated, leaving the gut-punch anxiety to rise to the surface again. He couldn't believe he was going to see his mother, after all of these years. He'd written her off so long ago, had spent years in therapy learning not to blame himself.

"I don't know if I can do this," he admitted quietly.

"You're not that little boy she hurt anymore, Peeta," Katniss said. She reached for him, and his eyes fluttered shut at the soft touch of her hand on his cheek. "You're the strongest man I know. You can do anything."

He reached up to curl his fingers around her hand, turning his face to press a kiss to her palm. "I love you," he rasped.

"I love you too," she said simply. "Your dad loves you, and so do Annie and Finn. Even your jerkface brothers," she teased, and his lips twitched. She kissed his cheek. "You are loved. You are so deserving of love." He could do nothing but nod.

o-o-o

The hospice was in an older part of town, wide streets lined with old trees and well-kept houses. Morning sunlight spilled through the canopy of leaves and children rode bicycles along the sidewalks. It was peaceful. Almost too pretty.

Katniss had offered to come with him but Peeta knew that this was something he had to do with just his brothers. He'd spent half the night lying in his plush hotel room bed, thinking of everything he wanted to say to his mother in what was likely to be their final meeting. Wondering if she'd answer any of his questions. Wondering if he really wanted to know anyway.

He'd talked himself into and out of the visit repeatedly. "You don't have to see her," Katniss had told him as dawn approached, both of them wide awake from the combination of the strange surroundings and the timezone change. "No one would judge you." He knew that too. But in the end, he'd decided that he needed to go.

Brann was waiting on the sidewalk in front of the stately stone building when Peeta and Rye climbed out of the cab. Peeta was surprised by how weary and drawn his brother looked, how old he seemed. How many years had it been since he'd last seen Brann? Since the last time they'd even spoken? Peeta wasn't sure. He saw Rye a few times a year, but he barely knew Brann anymore.

Peeta and Rye shook their big brother's hand solemnly, then he led them inside.

Peeta's heart pounded as they approached her room, trepidation and anger and even a bit of longing crowding his head and heart, leaving no room for rational thought. By the time Brann tapped softly on the doorframe of Room 212, Peeta was so freaked out he barely noticed the foreignness of his brother saying 'mom'.

He stepped into the room, modestly sized and decorated with paintings and lamps to make it look less institutional, less like a place where people came to die. For several long moments, he looked around at the walls, the windows, the medical equipment that didn't quite blend in. Looked everywhere except at the bed. Looked everywhere except at her.

Finally, Peeta took a deep breath and steeled himself. He'd come this far. He had to take the final step. He had to face his fear, and pain - face her, head on.

Brann and Rye were already standing one on each side of the narrow hospital bed. Rye's hands were wrapped around the metal safety bar, knuckles white.

But the person lying under a delicate crocheted blanket was a stranger.

He crept closer, heart in his throat. She was so much older than he remembered, her sparse hair entirely white. Her yellow skin sagged over hollow cheeks, folded on itself in limp layers. Her eyes were closed, but even in sleep she wore a pinched expression and he couldn't tell if it was pain or disapproval.

If his mother knew her sons were there, she gave no sign of it. Only the rasp of her breathing – shallow, slightly irregular – gave any indication that the waxen form on the bed was alive, was human at all. Brann spoke softly, gently, as if to a child, telling her about the weather, the happenings of the day, but her slack mouth didn't so much as twitch.

After awhile, a young nurse with a beautiful smile entered the room, checking vital signs and monitors, speaking to her patient as she fussed. "Can she hear us?" Rye asked, softly.

"I think so, yes," the nurse nodded. To Peeta it sounded like a kind lie, but Rye must have believed her, because once she left the room he began to speak.

Peeta and Brann were silent as Rye spoke to their mother, not in the soft, patronizing tones his brother and the nurse had used, but plainly, firmly, as if presenting at a board meeting. Peeta's heart clenched as Rye calmly and unemotionally listed for their mother all of the ways that her leaving had hurt him, but how he'd overcome the loss and was living a happy life. When Peeta snuck a glance at Brann he was staring out the window, jaw twitching. The gulf that had been driven between the brothers by their mother would likely never be fully bridged.

But their mother was still, silent. Unresponsive throughout.

When Rye concluded with, "I forgive you," something inside Peeta hardened. No, he thought. No, there would be no forgiveness for this woman who had all but destroyed her two young sons, who had left them behind, walked away without so much as a backwards glance. A woman who even now didn't care whether she saw them again. Maybe Rye could forgive. But Peeta could not.

After a few more terse minutes, Brann and Rye turned to leave. But Peeta was rooted in his spot at the end of her bed, held in place as if by an invisible force. Rye clapped him on the shoulder, his expression almost serene, as if a huge weight had been lifted from him. "Take your time," he murmured. "We'll wait downstairs."

Peeta stared at his mother for perhaps ten minutes more, searching his heart for any trace of the love he'd once felt for her. But there was nothing, no sorrow, no pain, no regret. She was a stranger, someone he'd once known but someone who had no place in his life now. She belonged firmly in the past. "Goodbye, mother," he said softly. Then he walked away, closing the door behind him.

o-o-o

The call came later that night, as Peeta and Katniss were sipping tea in front of the television in their suite. Peeta knew what Brann was going to say before he even picked up the phone. Their mother was gone.

Peeta tossed his phone onto the nightstand and fell back on the bed, hands covering his face. He felt the bed shift as Katniss crawled over to him. Then she was gathering him in her arms and he was clinging to her. His mother was dead, he should be sad, grieving. Instead, all Peeta felt was anger. That even in death she'd shortchanged him. Had taken from him the opportunity to find answers. To find closure.

They laid together silently for a long time, Peeta lost in the whirling maelstrom of his thoughts, Katniss supporting him just by her presence. Outwardly, Peeta Mellark was a calm, steady man with an easy smile. Only Katniss was ever allowed to see his pain. Only Katniss knew how much he was hurting inside. "Brann wants to have the funeral while we're still here," he said as Katniss kissed his hair, stroked his back. They hadn't spoken much about his trip to the hospice, Katniss had respected his quiet, contemplative mood and not pushed him. He'd declined Brann's dinner invitation too, electing instead to order room service and share a quiet meal with his fiancée. They'd chatted lightly about the promising new writer she'd met up with earlier in the day and about their plans to rent a car and drive along the coast before flying home.

"I'll change our flights," she said.

"You don't have to stay," he said, but Katniss snorted.

"Yes I do. I want to be here with you Peeta. You know that." He had to fight to keep his eyes from welling with tears. Nothing in his life had ever been easy, nor in hers. But they'd found each other and fought for each other, and he was so damned grateful for her presence in his life. So damned grateful that he didn't have to face this alone.

He leaned in, kissing her tenderly. "Help me forget," he implored, a whisper of words across her lips. "Just for a while."

o-o-o

The funeral itself had been almost entirely preplanned. Knowing she was dying, Peeta's mother had already chosen everything she wanted. All her sons had to do was make a few calls to set the plans in motion. In three days time it would all be over, and Peeta could go back home and forget.

But there was still her effects to deal with, her clothes and furniture and possessions. All of the accoutrements of a life Peeta knew nothing about. He wanted to suggest setting a match to everything, but he couldn't, not when he saw how sad Brann was, how genuinely heartsick he seemed by the idea of cleaning out her apartment.

They were a small army, standing in the living room of the condo his mother had apparently lived in for close to a decade. Peeta and Katniss, Rye and Octavia, Brann and two of his friends. The space was nothing like Peeta had imagined. Bright, sunny, modern, it looked like someplace a happy person might live. Not the dark, miserable hovel he had envisioned.

Peeta watched as Brann directed the assembled helpers, opening drawers, pulling out markers and packing tape with a familiarity that caught him by surprise. Clearly, Brann knew this apartment well. The pinched look on Rye's face suggested he'd come to the same conclusion.

Katniss and Octavia set to work in the kitchen, packing up dishes and appliances for the Salvation Army. Brann's friends sorted books and artwork into keep and donate piles in the living room. But the master bedroom, her bedroom, fell to the three Mellark brothers.

The room was spare and tidy, with more artwork adorning the walls, and on top of a small vanity a single framed photograph. Brann's college graduation, ten years earlier. He was wearing a mortarboard and a huge smile. And beside him, their mother, grinning.

Neither Peeta nor Rye had gone to Brann's graduation, there hadn't been enough money for the cross-country flights. His father had been there though. Maybe he'd even been the one to take the picture. But when he'd returned to Panem afterwards, all those years ago, with stories and pictures, he hadn't mentioned seeing his ex-wife, Peeta was sure of that.

Betrayal stung Peeta. He lifted his eyes from the photo to find Brann staring at him, discomfort all over his face. "I'll take the bedside table," Peeta said, his voice gruff.

There were books and cards and little mementos tucked into the drawer, but Peeta had no idea of their significance. Nor was he interested in keeping anything of hers for himself. He looked at each item impassively, sorting them into piles for donation and trash, trying not to think about the woman who'd put them there. Trying not to wonder why he hadn't been good enough for her.

In spite of what he'd said at the hospice, Rye was clearly thinking something similar, frowning as he stood before her closet, tossing clothing haphazardly into cardboard boxes, barely looking at the items. Grumbling under his breath, too softly for Peeta to hear the words, but his tone was crystal clear.

Distracted by watching Rye, Peeta lost his grip on the small enamelled jar of hair pins he'd found; they scattered across the hardwood floor. Grunting his discontent, he swept them back into the holder, then took a cursory glance under the bed. There were no more hair pins, but there was a suitcase, old and battered, completely at odds with the modernity of the rest of her possessions.

It was heavy, full.

When Peeta set it on the bed, Rye abandoned what he was doing to come over and look. "I remember that," he muttered, and Peeta nodded. Robin's egg blue, it had been part of a set of luggage his parents had owned. Peeta could see them in his mind's eye, piled in the back of their old station wagon on those long ago road trips to visit their grandparents. He was pretty sure the matching case was still in their father's attic. "Why would she keep that?" Rye grumbled.

Peeta shook his head. Her condo was completely devoid of any remnants of her former life, no photos, no knick knacks. To hold onto a crappy suitcase of all things? It made no sense.

It wasn't locked, and though it felt to Peeta like invading her privacy, he opened it. After all, she was little more than a dead stranger anyway.

Rye scoffed at the contents. "Old papers," he muttered, turning away in disgust. Indeed, the case was full of books and folders and loose papers, yellowing and faded. A deed from his grandparents farm, useless now. They'd been gone two decades, the property divested twenty-some years ago. His grandfather's military records. A recipe book. An almost forty year old high school yearbook from his mother's hometown. Items from before Peeta was born, likely all from before she'd even married

He was closing the lid when it caught his eye - a leather-bound sketch book, similar to the ones he himself used. His artistic sensibilities wouldn't allow him to ignore it.

The cover unfurled with a smoothness that only comes from being opened and shut a thousand times, and Peeta's eyes widened at the first page. A pencil sketch of a horse, a little faded but beautifully rendered, the artist's talent clear. Page after page revealed more pastoral scenes, a split rail fence, a meadow, birds congregating on a branch.

The corner of one sketch bore his mother's maiden name. Peeta was floored. He had no idea that his mother was an artist. He couldn't even remember her doodling on shopping lists. She'd never mentioned her artistic leanings, not even when he was exploring his own talents. In fact, as far as he could remember, she had never shown even a modicum of interest in art at all, not in museums and definitely not the pictures he drew.

But page after page in her sketchbook told a different story, one of a keen observer who captured life in the rural Pennsylvania village where she'd grown up with beauty and vibrancy, in pencil and charcoal and even oil pastels.

It made Peeta sad and a little angry to realize that he must have gotten his own talent from her. It was something that they could have, should have shared. But she'd stolen that possibility too, among so many other things she'd taken from him.

He flipped past two pages depicting baby Brann, another of Rye as a toddler, then paused at a sketch of two little towheads looking down at a swaddled and sleeping infant that might have been him.

After that page, the book switched again to landscapes. Peeta recognized the Golden Gate Bridge in one, redwoods in another. These were sketches she'd made after leaving.

Disgust coiled hot and rancid in his belly. Four pages. Her children, her twenty years of married life in Panem, all of it had warranted only four pages in a book she'd never even shared. There were more sketches of windowsills than there were of her sons.

He moved to toss the book back into the suitcase, but its worn cover bent back, and he caught a flash of something that looked suspiciously like the Eiffel Tower.

There was a moment where he fought himself, torn between curiosity and pique. But he couldn't quash the need to know. With a sigh, he opened the sketch book once more. It was the Eiffel Tower, detailed and beautifully rendered. But he barely glanced at that part of the sketch. Because staring back at him from the centre of the page was his own face. Not the not-quite thirteen year old visage she'd last seen in person fourteen years earlier. Instead, this was Peeta as he looked when he lived in France, fresh out of college, broken-hearted but determined to make a life for himself.

Peeta knew he'd posted a selfie or two from la tour Eiffel on social media, but his accounts were pretty tightly locked down. She wouldn't have seen a picture like this. Unless… He glanced up. Brann was watching him, his face twisted in misery. "I showed her your Facebook sometimes. Yours and Rye's," he whispered.

"Why?" It was Rye's pained voice. He'd moved from the closet again and was staring over his little brother's shoulder.

"She missed you."

"Bullshit!" Rye erupted. "Fucking bullshit and you know it. She didn't give a damn about us!" He stormed out of the room, muttering obscenities under his breath. The condo shook with the force of the front door slamming as Peeta stood stock-still and wide-eyed, trying to catch his breath.

"She regretted it," Brann said finally, barely a whisper.

"Fourteen years," Peeta said. "Not one call, not a letter, not an email. Nothing. Dad still has the same damned phone number as when we were little. She'd have been able to find us at any time." His voice shook in anger.

"I don't think she knew how to make it right," Brann said.

"She never tried. Not once. And now it's too late." Peeta tossed the sketchbook on top of the other papers destined for recycling.

"I know," Brann said. "I'm sorry." Peeta glanced up at his brother, and for the first time he could see the guilt his brother wore like a cloak, weighing him down, dampening his spirit. Though the brothers had never been close, Peeta walked around the bed and grabbed his oldest brother, pulling him into a tight hug. The two men clung to each other in the stilted silence. "I'm so damned sorry."

"It isn't your fault," Peeta murmured. "It never was." Brann's shoulders slumped and Peeta tightened his grip. Memories surfaced, faded and time-warped, of a time when Peeta's big brother was his hero. And he realized how much he missed that guy. Peeta knew he was partly to blame for the distance between them. It was easier to be angry at Brann than to acknowledge the hurt. But in doing so, in pushing him away, in shutting him out, he'd been no better than his mother.

He'd come to California seeking closure. Maybe instead, he'd find an opening.

There was motion at the door to the bedroom, Brann's friend Brett, and Katniss. Peeta and Brann stepped apart, Brann subtly rubbing his eyes with a sleeve. "Everything okay?" Brett asked. "The charity van is here."

"Yeah," Peeta said. "We're good." Brann shot him a weak smile, then nodded at Brett, who wrapped an arm around his shoulder and led him out of the room.

Katniss stayed behind, watching Peeta with a hint of a smile teasing her perfect peach lips. "Rough talk?" she asked, and he laughed softly, some of the tension seeping from his body. "Rye seemed pretty mad. Tavi chased after him." Peeta shrugged, he knew his brother needed time. They all did. He opened his arms and Katniss walked into them without hesitation, wrapping her arms around him, her lips just grazing his throat.

"I'm glad you're here," he sighed into her hair.

o-o-o

The day they buried Peeta's mother was cool for northern California, grey and drizzly, somber and heavy. There had been no open casket viewing, no visitation, no church Mass. Mrs. Mellark had planned only a no-nonsense graveside service. Fitting.

Peeta was surprised by the number of mourners, though, he reflected, he probably shouldn't have been. There were perhaps fifty people in total, Brann's friends and coworkers, come to offer their support, but also friends of his mother's, older women who, it was clear, knew who he and Rye were. Peeta accepted their condolences with grace but without much feeling. I'm sorry for your loss didn't mean much to him. He didn't feel like he'd lost anything that wasn't already long gone.

Except that watching Brann, clutching a black umbrella and leaning heavily on his friend, Peeta was keenly aware that he had lost something precious. Not his mother, but his brother, and the relationship they should have had.

Peeta's father had flown in the night before and was uncharacteristically quiet. Wrapped up in his own pain, Peeta had never once as a youth, and not even in adulthood, pondered how his mother leaving had hurt his dad. But fourteen years later, Graham Mellark had never remarried. Had never, as far as Peeta knew, even dated another woman. Even before she left, Peeta couldn't understand why his dad had married his mother. She was cruel and short-tempered, snappish and shrewish. Peeta always thought his father could have done better. But as he grew, he came to understand that love wasn't something you could explain, nor was it something you could turn off, even when you wanted to.

The minister said a few words, platitudes that Peeta barely listened to. He was, instead, transfixed by the droplets of rain beading on her casket, watching the intricate designs the rivulets of water drew as they slid down the curved lid. Katniss's hand squeezing his own snapped him out of his reverie to see that people were dispersing. It was over.

Rye had apparently left with their father as soon as the ceremony ended. But Brann, nodding to a few stragglers, came around the coffin to stand beside Peeta. "Will you come back to my place this evening," he said softly, unsure. "Have dinner, and catch up a little?"

"Yes," Peeta said, without hesitation, and Brann looked surprised, as if he hadn't dared hope that Peeta would do anything other than blow him off again. Peeta and Rye had both declined his every invitation in the four days they'd been in California. But Peeta wanted, needed, another chance. Maybe too much time had gone by, maybe there was nothing left between him and his eldest brother. But he needed to try. He turned towards Katniss, and she was smiling, just a little. He could read her approval in that subtle uptick of her lips and was so grateful for her unspoken support.

o-o-o

Peeta had never visited his brother in California. When Brann first went away to college, Peeta was thirteen, Rye sixteen and their newly-separated father was barely managing to keep his head above water. On only one income, Graham Mellark had struggled to keep his business afloat and his younger boys fed while also paying his eldest son's college expenses. There was no money for trips to California.

But even later, after Peeta had finished college, after he'd established himself, started earning a good living of his own, there were no trips to see his brother. It would have been so easy to spend a few days on the beach with Brann, but Peeta had never made the effort. He'd constructed a wall around his heart, to keep his mother out. But Brann had been trapped outside too, separated from his brother by anger and jealousy. Peeta was filled with regret about that.

To be fair, Brann hadn't made many attempts either. He came home to Panem for Christmas when they were all young, but eventually, as each Mellark brother built a life of his own, finding themselves together for the holidays dwindled to never. Over the previous five years, Peeta realized, the sum of his and Brann's communications had been three or four times yearly texts, on their respective birthdays, Christmas, maybe Thanksgiving. Quick exchanges, no details, no depth.

Standing in front of the white bungalow on a sleepy cul de sac an hour north of San Francisco, Peeta realized he knew nothing at all about his eldest brother. The rare times he'd tried to think of Brann's life in California, he'd envisioned a glass and steel condo, high above silicon valley. Not a house that, but for the tile roof and palm trees, would have fit perfectly in Panem.

The front door swung open, as if Brann had been watching for their arrival and Peeta involuntarily squeezed Katniss's hand harder. They'd spent maybe a little too long at the hotel, changing, decompressing, breathing, before heading out, and Peeta suspected from his brother's expression that Brann thought they might have ditched him. That too made Peeta's heart ache, that his brother didn't know what kind of man he was, didn't know that Peeta considered his word his bond. Didn't know that he never made promises he couldn't keep, having been on the receiving end of far too many broken ones in his life.

"Sorry we're late," Peeta said, but Brann just smiled and ushered them into the house, wrapping an arm around Katniss as he did.

"Have any trouble finding the place?" he asked, leading them through a cozy sunken living room with leather furniture and a huge television. Graphic art prints lined the walls and overstuffed bookshelves gave the room a feeling of being homey, permanent, which further unnerved Peeta. Clearly, his brother was well settled in California. This was his home now. Not Panem.

Then Brann led them into a gleaming modern kitchen, large work surfaces and top of the line appliances. Peeta grinned in approval, this at least made sense to him, that the kitchen was so well-appointed. His own kitchen in Manhattan was the showpiece of the home he and Katniss shared. Rye, too, had spent months renovating the kitchen of the house in Connecticut that he and Octavia bought together. It felt good to see that there was still something the brothers had in common. "Nice digs," Peeta said and Brann chuckled, some of the tension in his posture dissipating.

"The kitchen is my happy place," he said, and the brothers shared a knowing look. Peeta suspected that if he opened the door of the sub-zero freezer, he'd find it packed with baked goods. Each of the brothers had found solace for the stresses in their lives on cookie sheets and in muffin tins, the trappings of the world they'd grown up in. "Brett's out back, tending the grill. Do you want something to drink? Wine?"

A glass of Sonoma red in hand, Peeta followed his brother out onto a large deck, honeysuckle vines twisting up the pillars of a pergola, sweetly scenting the air. The kind of grill he could only dream of in Manhattan, where space was at a premium, dominated one corner of his brother's deck, and inviting cushioned chairs were scattered about. It all spoke of a casual elegance, a space designed for long evenings of laughter and companionship. Again, Peeta was struck by how much of his brother's life he had missed out on.

Katniss touched his hand, then wandered towards Brett and the barbeque. Peeta understood she was intentionally giving him time and space to talk with his brother. He swirled his glass of wine and swallowed hard, unsure what to say. What to talk about with a brother he barely knew anymore.

They walked across the wide deck and Peeta lowered himself onto a comfortable divan with a sigh.

Brann grinned as he plopped into a chair across from Peeta, "I can't believe you're finally here," he said softly, almost childlike in his delight.

Peeta cringed, his brother's enthusiasm only made him feel worse about the distance. "I'm sorry. I should have come long ago." Brann waved him off.

"You're here now," he smiled.

"This is a beautiful yard," Peeta said, taking in the rest of the area. There wasn't really any lawn, but the landscaping was lush, drought-resistant succulents and grasses brought bright pops of green to the space.

"Thanks," Brann smiled. "It's all Brett." He gestured towards the man some twenty feet away, standing sentinel over the grill, and Brett winked. "He's been working on the landscaping since we bought the place. Calls it a hobby but I think it's more of an obsession." Brann's cheeks, already wine-flushed, grew even redder, and Peeta recognized the look his brother was casting at Brett. For a few long moments, Peeta was speechless. How could he have not known something so fundamental about his own flesh and blood?

"Brett…" Peeta started, but found he had no idea how to continue.

"You didn't know?" Brann asked softly, but not unkindly. Peeta shook his head. "We've been together about four years now." At Peeta's shocked expression, Brann shrugged. "You were in France then, burying yourself in work."

Peeta nodded; after college, when he and Katniss had split up, he'd run away to Europe, shut almost everyone he knew out of his life, tried to be someone else in a vain attempt to forget. But she'd been back in his life nearly three years now, they were engaged. He had no excuse for his continued avoidance of his family.

As if reading his brother's mind, Brann reached out and patted Peeta's hand. "I'm glad to see that you're back together," he said, nodding towards Katniss. "I always knew she was the one."

Peeta couldn't help smiling. "Took a lot of work," he admitted. "We both made so many mistakes." He finished the last of the wine in his glass. "It took a lot of therapy to understand how mom leaving affected all of my relationships," he confessed quietly, unable to look his brother in the eye. "Seems I'm not done figuring that part out yet."

"I know you and Rye resent me," Brann said, then waved his hand against Peeta's protest. "It's okay, I'd resent me too, if the tables were turned."

"Did you see her a lot?" Peeta murmured, though he was certain he already knew the answer. Brann nodded. They sat in silence, watching shadows lengthen across the yard, listening to the low murmur of Katniss and Brett chatting. Finally, Peeta asked the question that had consumed him for years. "Why wouldn't she ever see me and Rye?" He was twenty-seven years old, and it still hurt like hell that she'd maintained a relationship with Brann, but not with him. That she'd loved Brann, but not him.

Brann shook his head, eyes glistening in the low light. "I don't know," he said. "I just don't know. I was so mad the first time she called me, when I moved out here for college. I tried to ignore her, we barely spoke the first few years, and when we did it was mostly screaming. But she was here, and I was lonely." He lifted his gaze to Peeta, the same blue eyes all three Mellark boys shared. "And she was my mom."

Peeta bit his tongue. He wanted to lash out, to remind Brann that she'd been his mother too. But it wasn't Brann's fault.

"She was pretty screwed up when she first came out here," Brann continued, as if reading his mind. "Drinking too much and bouncing from job to job. Angry all the time."

"She was angry all the time before she left," Peeta muttered. He had the scars to prove it. Brann laughed harshly, but with no mirth.

"She was a shitty mother, Peet, especially to you. I know that. But the past maybe five years…" he trailed off, staring into the distance. "I don't know, we kind of found a groove I guess. She cleaned up her act, sort of settled down."

It was almost full dark, Brett set a lit citronella candle and a fresh bottle of wine on the low table between the brothers. "Katniss and I are going to set the table inside. Dinner in about ten minutes?" he asked, softly. Peeta couldn't help but smile as Brann reached for his boyfriend's hand, bringing it briefly to his lips. They made a sweet couple. Then Brett retreated to the house, and they were alone again.

"I miss you." Brann's words were barely a whisper. "I loved mom, but I hate what she did to us. How she pitted us against each other. Even when we were kids."

"I miss you too. And I'm sorry," Peeta said, swallowing hard. "I've missed out on so much of your life."

Brann shifted, climbing onto the divan beside Peeta and wrapping his arms around his younger brother. "I'm sorry too, Peet. I want us to be a family again." He was silent for a moment, gripping Peeta tightly. "Do you want that too?"

"Yes."

o-o-o

A weary Peeta leaned back in his seat on the plane, smiling as his fiancée hummed beside him. They'd spent the previous two days touring the California coast, hiking to scenic overlooks, visiting vineyards and eating incredible food. Brann knew all of the best restaurants, and had been anxious to share his favourites with his brother and Katniss. A whirlwind forty-eight hours of conversation and laughter and far too much wine had gone a long way to repairing the damaged relationship between Peeta and Brann.

Rye and Octavia had even joined them for a meal, the first time all three Mellark brothers had broken bread together in close to a decade. It had felt good. It had felt right.

And when, in the airport concourse, the brothers had promised to see each other again soon, Peeta knew they all meant it.

"I'm really proud of you." Katniss set her chin on his shoulder, her voice warm and comforting in his ear. The smile he hadn't been able to wipe off in two days widened.

"Why's that?" he asked softly, eyes closed but reaching for her hand.

"This was a hard week for you, but you were amazing through it all." He wasn't sure about amazing, but things had gone better than he could ever have hoped, and he was feeling pretty positive.

He lifted their entwined hands to his mouth, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckle just below the engagement ring that sat regally on her finger. "I couldn't have gotten through without you," he murmured. "Thank you for being here."

Katniss kissed his cheek, then set her head on his shoulder again. In the silence that followed, he drifted on the edge between asleep and awake, mind quiet for the first time in weeks.

"Peeta?"

"Mmm?" he said, eyes closed, warm and happy.

"I was thinking," she murmured. "About Jamaica."

"Yeah?" he almost laughed. Their upcoming wedding was his second favourite thing to dream about.

"I was thinking… maybe we shouldn't get married there?"

Peeta sat up so fast that he knocked Katniss's head off his shoulder. "What?" he asked, certain he'd misheard and terrified that he hadn't. He'd wanted to marry her since he was five, they'd been engaged sixteen long months already. Could she be having cold feet? But her expression was warm and loving, not like someone about to dump him.

"Maybe," she said, and his every muscle tensed. "Maybe we could honeymoon there, and get married back in Panem instead, in that little church on Seam St. With your family and our friends around us."

Peeta could hardly breathe, staring at his beautiful fiancée as she described his heart's secret desire. "Really?" he said, it sounded like a gasp.

"I think it'd be good," she nodded, and he bit his lip. Katniss, seeing him interact with his brothers and father, must have realized how much he was looking forward to having them be part of his life again. For all of her prickly exterior, she was constantly putting other people ahead of herself. Peeta worried that this was another of her attempts to cater to his needs while sacrificing her own happiness. And he wouldn't allow that. "For both of us," she added, correctly interpreting his fears. "It… it's my home too."

"Are you sure you're ready for that?" he whispered, his traitorous heart leaping even as he tried to affect a somber tone. Katniss laughed softly.

"I'm not saying it wouldn't be hard. But my parents were married there. And Prim is buried there." She looked at him with silver eyes glistening. "It's time, Peeta, for both of us to reclaim our family and our roots." He kissed her hard, his heart full.

He was overwhelmed, but optimistic. He'd gone to California looking for answers, looking for closure. But he'd found something far more precious. He'd found his brother. He'd found family. He'd found hope and home and new beginnings.


End file.
